after having had girlfriends all over europe here's how i feel:

Every City Wore a Different Face

I won’t call your name.
I’ll just leave the door unlocked.

Funny.

Paris kissed me,
same streets, different lips.

Venice kissed me,
same waters, different reflection.

London, Kensington’s,
perfect manners and those deep blue eyes.

And Sicily, oh, my bellissima,
wrinkled linen across your body, sun sinking into the salty  Mediterranean under and infront of us, Piccioni, loud,
I’m pushing the throttle, your voice screaming with laughter,
your brown hair and the Italian flag behind us both dancing to the same wind. SSS(read this as ess, a way of pointing out the girl since her name begins with S)

And after all of it, all the flights, the different accents of English.. people called it freedom. some said luxury. Others, fuck...boy.(say fuck slowly and pause and then say boy)

people call it everything....everything except what it actually is, to me.

just me, my passport, and the abhorrent habit of leaving

Maybe I'm selfish.Maybe I'm paranoid.

Maybe I'm just…

too much charm

and not enough guilt.

For the first time,

I'm waiting for you.

a hometown I don’t want to leave.

One laugh

One pair of eyes

One, one.(say slowly)

I’ll just leave the door unlocked.

For you—

my only hometown to come home to.

It was never about geography..

--------------
END lol.

(if you want it to be recited as i would've(the right way to recite this poem), turn on minnies lament by minnie ripperton and have it in the background(yes, Iam 1000000% serious)
please dont get jelous,give me genuine critique. I am 17, having done all this has really fucked me up deeply. and these are my very raw feelings. feels like i should have photo proof. this is just a nitpick of the places ive loved in. i kinda feel sad about it since i left high school and never really got to experience real normal teenage love.

https://preview.redd.it/lor2f73b3abh1.jpg?width=1536&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=8a19ba49f75768fecff10c8890f5bb0b81b824b4

I AM NOT FLEXING

https://preview.redd.it/o38euvea3abh1.png?width=3360&format=png&auto=webp&s=80d05110e716fe6e86f6db6dd0f3d2dec608d924

https://preview.redd.it/nxrbwcvc3abh1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=62387aa351f6695d04ede41485298eee907df249

99% of you don't actually read poetry—you dissect it. You obsess over the wording, the grammar, the metaphors, whether it "flows," whether it's technically good. That's the most boring way imaginable to read a poem. You've become critics before you've ever become human. I'd rather read a messy poem written by someone who's actually lived than a perfect poem written by someone who's only studied poetry. So tell me what you think about mine. Not whether it's polished. Not whether you'd give it an A in English class. Tell me whether it made you feel anything. If your first instinct is to critique the wording instead of asking what it's trying to say, you've completely missed the point. This poem is about trying to find the goodness I was born with after life taught me to carry a sword. It's about wondering whether people love me for who I am or for what I can do for them. If you've never questioned that, maybe this poem wasn't written for you. And if all you saw was a flower and a sword, you proved my point. All love you irritating fucks. I love love and hate hate!

This poem isn't about a flower or a sword.

It's about the fact that every man carries both.

The world only notices the sword, then acts surprised when it forgets the little boy underneath.

The strongest men aren't the ones who never became soft.

They're the ones who never let the world kill that softness completely.

If all you saw was a metaphor, you proved my point.

A warrior in a field of flowers

A flower in my left, sword in my right

I have scars on my heart,

too deep to make things feel light.

Im not a warrior, I just forgot how to put my sword down

I look down, at the flower, at the blade. 

And I wonder 

Before I became this stranger I no longer recognize

I was just a boy, with these huge endless EYES

Now I stand here before you, divided in two:

A flower that remembers softness…

and a sword that remembers the whys

the problem with 99999999999% of you all is that you never have been through anything forreal, I have lived more than you and your grandfathers throughout my 17 years pon planet madda earth. Another huge problem is that all you focus tooooooo much on the poem themselves as in the words, how they sound, how they look, all so superficial.

please, kindly what do you think about my poetry. ALL LOVE! it might not be so well-written but it is incredibly real, the real ones will know what i mean, if you dont like it you are not even meant to read it. the central focus is how I trying to return to the goodness I was born with, while asking to be seen and loved for My soul rather than my accomplishments, wealth, or scars. ONLY real men will relate to the feeling of not knowing if you are loved for what you are providing or for who you are.

LOLLL, my poem dont have a title fuck you english teachers:))))))

I don't want gold, or silver, or bronze.
I don't want medals at all.

The only man I wish to outrun

is the one I was yesterday.

All I ask is simple—

to live in peace, 

and to be met as an equal.

You see,

I was once a boy with warm, innocent eyes.

Now the lenses between me and the world are made of ice.

Do not see me for what I have.

Gold only gilds the bars of my cage.

See me for what remains
when everything that can be counted is taken away.

Habiba,

I will give you everything that I am—

In return, I ask for almost nothing.

To be appreciated.

To be seen.

And maybe—

if such things still happen—

to be loved.

For I was born knowing how to love.

The world taught me hatred,I refuse to become its best student.

The fathers before my father

were warriors of the Aït Iznassen mountains,

But me, I grew up in the warmth of women—

my mother, and her sisters, whose love was stronger than any blade.

My love—

they say you only live twice.

I have already died once.

Now I exist somewhere between worlds—

between the edge of a sword,

and the softness of a girl's red lips.

the problem with 99999999999% of you all is that you never have been through anything forreal, I have lived more than you and your grandfathers throughout my 17 years pon planet madda earth. Another huge problem is that all you focus tooooooo much on the poem themselves as in the words, how they sound, how they look, all so superficial.

please, kindly what do you think about my poetry. ALL LOVE! it might not be so well-written but it is incredibly real, the real ones will know what i mean, if you dont like it you are not even meant to read it. the central focus is how I trying to return to the goodness I was born with, while asking to be seen and loved for My soul rather than my accomplishments, wealth, or scars. ONLY real men will relate to the feeling of not knowing if you are loved for what you are providing or for who you are.

LOLLL, my poem dont have a title fuck you english teachers:))))))

I don't want gold, or silver, or bronze.
I don't want medals at all.

The only man I wish to outrun

is the one I was yesterday.

All I ask is simple—

to live in peace, 

and to be met as an equal.

You see,

I was once a boy with warm, innocent eyes.

Now the lenses between me and the world are made of ice.

Do not see me for what I have.

Gold only gilds the bars of my cage.

See me for what remains
when everything that can be counted is taken away.

Habiba,

I will give you everything that I am—

In return, I ask for almost nothing.

To be appreciated.

To be seen.

And maybe—

if such things still happen—

to be loved.

For I was born knowing how to love.

The world taught me hatred,I refuse to become its best student.

The fathers before my father

were warriors of the Aït Iznassen mountains,

But me, I grew up in the warmth of women—

my mother, and her sisters, whose love was stronger than any blade.

My love—

they say you only live twice.

I have already died once.

Now I exist somewhere between worlds—

between the edge of a sword,

and the softness of a girl's red lips.